by Jackie Lau
She kisses my forehead. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What’s with all the Christmas stuff? The cookies and gingerbread house and orange pomander balls...”
Not the question I was expecting.
I don’t know what I was expecting, to be honest.
“Do you always do that?” she asks.
I exhale. “My mom had a health scare.”
“Oh my God. I had no idea. Is she—”
“She’s fine, but there were months of uncertainty.” I run a hand through my hair. “She always did everything for Christmas, but this year, we’re not letting her lift a finger, and it’s going to be amazing.”
I hug Caitlin, trying to say everything I feel with my body. Once again, she falls asleep in my arms—I can hardly believe this is becoming a regular occurrence—and I run my fingers through her hair, careful not to wake her. It’s five in the morning, but I want to stay awake, to savor the feel of having her here with me.
You have to appreciate what you have. That’s what the past few months have taught me. And I appreciate the hell out of having Caitlin Ng in my bed.
You also have to go for the things you want in life. Being with her, really being with her, isn’t outside the realm of possibility.
When it’s morning for real, I’m going to tell her the truth.
Chapter 7
Caitlin
When I wake up on Christmas Eve, I’m sore. I suppose this is what happens when you have sex twice in one night after not having any at all for more than a year.
It’s a good kind of sore, though. I like that I can still feel Wes between my legs.
I bolt upright in bed. I slept with Wes, after deciding it was the smart and sensible solution to my problems. Oh my God, is stuff going to get strange between us now? How did that possibility not occur to me last night?
I usually think everything through. In excessive detail.
But last night, I just wanted...so I took, and pretended it was sensible.
I don’t have a lot of friends. I still have a few from university, from early in my career, but now that I’m the CEO of a big dating app company, some people act weird around me.
Yeah, ironic that I’m lonely when I run a dating app. We have a friendship app now, too, because some people find that as they grow older, they lose friends (when their friends move across the country or turn out to be bigots, for example) and don’t have anywhere to make new ones. It’s not as big as the dating app, but it’s still doing well.
I’m not on it, though, just like I’m not on Match Me.
Anyway, I don’t have a lot of friends separate from work. Wes is one of them, and now we’ve slept together.
It didn’t mean anything. I don’t think sex ever means anything to Wes, and it’s not like I was looking for more.
Although it was really freaking amazing.
I always thought sex would be best with someone I cared about, but last night proved that theory wrong. It was better than any sex I’ve had with a boyfriend.
Except I do care about Wes. Just not in that way.
Although maybe...
I shake my head. Wes is my friend, end of story, and now it might be awkward between us. Hopefully he’ll know how to bridge that awkwardness—he’s good at things like that.
I look over at him, asleep next to me in bed. Damn, he’s gorgeous. His apartment is a proper temperature now, and he’s got the sheet pushed part way down his bare chest. I remember how I ran my hands all over him last night, and I can’t help a blush from creeping over my face.
How did I not realize how hot he is until last night?
As though feeling my gaze on him, he sleepily opens his eyes. “Hey, Caitlin.” He smiles, doesn’t bolt upright like I did. He doesn’t seem bothered by waking up in bed with me.
“Hey, yourself.”
“You look like you’re freaking out.”
“Who, me?” I laugh, but then I tell him the truth. “I don’t have many friends. I can’t afford to lose the ones I have. And you and I—”
“Shh.” He pushes me onto my back and rolls over me. His cock is heavy between us, and his bare skin feels so good against mine.
How did I go without sex for over a year?
How did I have such good sex with a friend?
“You and I are going to be fine,” he says.
And I surrender. I believe him because I need to.
I let someone else take care of things for a change.
* * *
Cynthia texts me: The power’s back! Since it stopped snowing a while ago and the streets downtown have mostly been cleared, I could go home.
But I don’t.
Because I like spending time with Wes.
There are more Christmas preparations today. I remember what he told me in the middle of the night about his mom. I’m so glad she’s okay, and I feel like a shitty friend—I didn’t know any of this was going on. I need to make more of an effort with the friends I do have, though Wes hasn’t reached out to me as much as usual in the past few months, either.
Now, he swipes up some chocolate ganache—a mixture of chocolate and cream—on his finger and slips it between my lips. When I swirl my tongue around his finger, he moans.
It’s been different between us all morning. He’s been touching me casually, randomly planting kisses on my cheeks and neck, feeding me bits of the food we’re making. Right now, we’re making chocolate truffles.
We haven’t gone back to the way we were before. We’ve slipped into couple behavior instead, and I have to say, I like it. I’ve missed moments like these.
Moments when I’m hanging out with a guy in my kitchen, licking chocolate off his fingers, and he moans and says, “I can’t help thinking of your mouth in other places.”
Exactly what was on my mind.
Somehow this leads to me giving him a blow job and us having sex on a chair in the kitchen. Funny how making chocolate truffles can lead to such activities.
Then we have a shower together. It’s only sensible, since we both need to get clean and he only has one shower, right?
Usually, getting distracted like that is unthinkable for me. I get shit done.
But today, with Wes, it’s okay to live differently. It’s a nice change from my usual life.
Once all of the ganache has been rolled into balls (balls—tee-hee), it goes back in the fridge to harden. (Harden, lol. My mind is in the gutter today.) In a little while, we’ll take it back out and roll the truffles in cocoa powder, chopped pistachios, and shredded coconut.
For now, though, we decorate the tree. It’s been up in Wes’s apartment the entire time I’ve been here, but with only lights and a star on top—no other decorations. He has a wide variety of ornaments, including some adorable ones that were clearly made by his little niece and nephew.
My heart squeezes. I don’t have any nieces or nephews, and I have no family here for Christmas.
I take a deep breath. It’s okay. I’m hanging out with Wes now, and we’re having a good time enjoying the holiday season—and each other’s bodies.
Suddenly, I picture him doing this with another woman, though perhaps that’s stupid. Wes isn’t one for relationships. But maybe he makes chocolate truffles or gingerbread cookies with all of his flings. Maybe he’s been sweet and romantic like this with dozens of other women, women who are much easier to be with than me.
I’m aware that I intimidate men. Many men would be fine with a woman who makes a little more than them, but I’m a CEO, and that’s a different story. I’m freakishly driven, and I work too hard, though this weekend has shown me that I need to give myself more breaks. Just having a weekend off work is a revelation.
I usually date high-powered men who are attracted to my success, but once we start getting serious, they want me to be someone other than who I am. One wanted me to be more glamorous, the perfect arm candy; another expected me to quit my job once we had kids.
Wes has ne
ver acted weird around me, though. Right now, I’m not some overworked CEO; I’m just a woman enjoying the holiday season with a man.
I put a Santa ornament on the tree and turn toward Wes. He grins and steps toward me, slipping his arm around my hip.
He may claim he doesn’t do relationships, but one day, he will find someone. I’m sure of it. He’s such a good guy, and he’s easy to talk to, and it’s so easy for me to picture him being someone’s boyfriend.
I push those thoughts aside and restrain myself from stabbing my hand with an icicle ornament.
“Hey,” Wes whispers, in a voice that makes me all gooey inside. “I’m going to pop out to get something. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, okay?”
“What are you getting?”
“You’ll see.” He winks.
Hmm. I wonder where he’s going?
Chapter 8
Wes
Excellent. The small grocer on the corner has mistletoe.
I remember seeing it when I walked by a few days ago and I feared they might have sold it all by now, but it’s still here. I buy some, make another purchase at Happy As Pie in Baldwin Village, and head back to my apartment building.
It still seems like a bit of a longshot, but I’m going to confess my feelings for Caitlin Ng, and I’m going to do it under the mistletoe. Is that a bit of a cliché? I don’t know, but it’s the best idea I have.
Maybe I can be what she needs, and maybe she feels the same way about me, even though she said it was just sex.
But after last night...it’s hard to believe she didn’t feel it, too.
I grin. I had Caitlin in my bed last night, and this morning, and we weren’t just “snuggling for warmth.” I was inside her, and it was everything I’d imagined and more.
I’m still grinning like a fool when I walk into the apartment and see her there, looking like she belongs. I hang up the mistletoe in the bedroom doorway and then I take her hand and lead her under it.
Although I’m happy, I’m also freaking the fuck out, because I’m finally, after a dozen years, going to say something to Caitlin.
But first, I’m going to kiss her.
I point up at the mistletoe and waggle my eyebrows, trying to act like casual, easygoing Wes, even if that’s not how I feel right now. “Looks like it’s time for us to kiss.”
Caitlin frowns. “That’s not mistletoe.”
“It’s not?”
She chuckles. “It’s holly. Did you go out to get mistletoe just for an excuse to kiss me, and then end up buying holly?”
I grab my phone and look up mistletoe.
She’s right. Of course she’s right; this is Caitlin, after all.
Why did I always think this was mistletoe? I have no idea. Though frankly, mistletoe is pretty plain. How did something so plain become a Christmas tradition?
I’m not embarrassed when I dance around a pub in a T-Rex costume to Christmas songs, but I’m embarrassed now. Embarrassed that I’m such an idiot.
A reminder I needed, perhaps.
Sure, Caitlin and I shared a bed, and sure, I can show her a good time, and sure, I can be her friend, but I’m not her type.
Her type? Men who wouldn’t be so stupid as to mix up mistletoe and holly. I’ve met a few of her exes, and they’re nothing like me. And surely Caitlin knows what kind of guy she wants.
It was stupid to ever think that was an option.
So I abort my mission. I leave the holly hanging in the doorway, and I kiss Caitlin anyway, but I don’t share the feelings I’ve been concealing for years.
When we walk back to the table to finish up the truffles, I do another search on my phone. I find numerous people saying how stupid it is to confuse mistletoe with holly and how such idiots should be stabbed in the eye with prickly holly leaves.
Well. Great to know that people like me inspire such violent thoughts.
* * *
After we finish the truffles, I make Caitlin some tea because her hands are cold and she says she’s had enough hot chocolate for the weekend, though I’m not sure how anyone can ever have too much hot chocolate. I also bring out the box I bought from Happy As Pie.
“It’s the best key lime pie I’ve ever had,” I say, opening up the box. “You have to try it.”
“Key lime pie is my favorite!” she says. “You remembered.”
Yes, of course I remembered. I remember everything about her.
As we’re sitting at my tiny kitchen table, sipping tea and eating pie and shortbread cookies, she reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“Thank you,” she says. “I didn’t think a snowstorm and losing power at my house would lead to such a great weekend, but it did. I’m not looking forward to spending Christmas alone.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re in Hong Kong.”
I can’t allow Caitlin to spend Christmas by herself. That’s unthinkable. Especially since she admitted last night that she’s lonely.
“You can celebrate Christmas with my family,” I say. “This evening. Then you can spend the night here again, if you like.”
“Really? I don’t want to intrude.”
“No, no. It’s fine. There will be a ton of food—look at all the dessert we’ve made.” I sweep my arm across the kitchen, where there are tins of cookies and truffles and a rather hideous gingerbread house that’s lacking structural stability. “My father bought a twenty-pound turkey, which is a lot when there’s only five adults, a four-year-old, and a toddler who only eats mac and cheese.”
“If you’re sure,” she says doubtfully.
“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. You can come to our Christmas Eve dinner.”
My mother will ask hopeful questions, since I’m bringing a girl—she hasn’t met Caitlin, or most of my friends from university before—but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Caitlin stands up abruptly, knocking the table in the process. “I should go to the mall to get presents. What does your niece like? Your nephew? What should I get your parents?”
“You don’t need to go to the mall on one of the worst shopping days of the year. I have lots of presents. They won’t expect you to bring anything.”
She sits back down. “I can’t show up empty-handed.”
“You won’t. You’ll be helping me carry everything.” I sweep my hand across the room again. “You can carry the gingerbread house.”
She gives me a look. “You know what I mean.”
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
“I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to be courteous.”
“I’ll add your name to all the labels on the presents, what about that?”
“Then it’ll be like we’re a couple, but we’re not.” She picks up a gingerbread cookie and bites off the head. “Sometimes I give interviews, talking about how I believe in love and how we can help people find it, sharing success stories—I love reading those. But...” She shakes her head. “People talk about me as though I’m amazing, a young minority woman who started this company from nothing and is now a CEO, but sometimes I feel like a fraud.”
“Because you run a dating website, but you don’t have anyone for yourself?”
Me! Me! a part of my brain screams. Pick me!
I push that aside. I decided I wouldn’t say anything, and so I won’t. Caitlin isn’t some perfect being who’s on a plane above everyone else. She’s a woman who snores and can’t sing—as I discovered this weekend.
Still, I’m not her type.
“Well, that, too...” she begins, “but mostly, I just feel like it was all a fluke.”
I give her a look. “It was not all a fluke. You did it because you’re smart, and you were able to figure out what people wanted and needed.”
“As a twenty-five-year-old single woman in the city when I was starting out, it was easy to figure out what women could use.”
“But nobody else did what you did.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Just because there was som
e luck involved doesn’t mean it was all a fluke. You’re brilliant, and you would have done something like that eventually, I know it.”
She smiles weakly at me.
I need her to understand. “I believe in you. I always did. From the moment you knocked me in the head with a door, I knew you were going to do great things in life.” I pause. “Imagine you’re some white dude from a big-name family who went to prep school then an Ivy League college. You’d be so fucking full of yourself, you would never think it was a fluke, or that it had anything to do with all the advantages you received in life. You would wake up in the morning, cocky as shit, and think, “I’m awesome!’”
She laughs, just a little, and then she bends over and laughs really fucking hard, and she’s so pretty when she laughs like that—it hits me in the chest.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous for me to be insecure and suffer from imposter syndrome when—”
I put a finger to her lips. “Don’t apologize for anything, not with me. One day, you’ll have the fairy tale that you help other people find. I know it. Because in addition to everything else, you’re really amazing in bed. I have first-hand experience.”
She laughs again, and I look away, swallowing hard.
I have no doubt that she’ll find someone eventually, but it won’t be me.
Chapter 9
Caitlin
“Why are you bringing your T-Rex costume?” I ask as we carry the second round of boxes and bags down to Wes’s car.
“To surprise Dana, my niece,” he says. “She loves dinosaurs.”
“I assume one of these poorly-wrapped boxes contains a dinosaur-related present for her.” I’ve been teasing him about his wrapping skills all day.
“Of course. Books and dinosaur toys—she was particularly keen on getting a pachycephalosaurus this year. She borrowed my sister’s phone three times to call me and ask me to buy her one.”
If my ovaries were the twitching sort, they would probably be twitching now.
We load everything into Wes’s clunker of a car, including the box of persimmons that I insisted on buying for his parents, and drive to Scarborough. I can’t help feeling nervous, as though I’m meeting a boyfriend’s family for the first time.